


Leap

by Byrcca



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Episode: s01e06 The Cloud, Episode: s06e11 Fair Haven, Episode: s06ep17 Spirit Folk, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-24 19:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17106356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byrcca/pseuds/Byrcca
Summary: Look before you leap? Not Tom Paris. A truncated exposition that ties together two stages of Tom’s life. Now with more (some) dancing!





	1. Storm Clouds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptAcorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptAcorn/gifts), [caseyptah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caseyptah/gifts), [Helen8462](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helen8462/gifts), [Klugtiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klugtiger/gifts), [R_S_B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_S_B/gifts), [Sareki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sareki/gifts).



> It’s not Christmassy, but it is a gift for the wonderful women who have been so welcoming in my reemergence in the fic world, for their patience and generosity:
> 
> CaptAcorn, Caseyptah, Helen8462, Klugtiger, RSB, and Sareki. 
> 
> And, as always, for LA, who has been there from the beginning. 
> 
> It’s unbetaed because it’s a suprise!
> 
> Presumably, after the riotous events of Spirit Folk, all the holograms calmed down and Voyager’s crew was welcome once again in the little town of Fair Haven. I haven’t rewatched SF, rewatching Fair Haven was difficult enough, so I can’t confirm my theory.

“He bothers me.” 

~ Zoe Alleyne Washburne, _Firefly_.

 

***

 _Stupid, fucking broken cotter pin in the stupid, fucking assembly matrix causing a stupid, fucking systems failure!_ B’Elanna scowled as she yanked on the chip tray trying to pull it loose. _Stupid, fucking self-important systems designers, making everything needlessly difficult!_

B’Elanna’s stomaches growled, reminding her that it had been a very long time since her hurried breakfast of a lone piece of raaska fruit, and that skipping lunch had been a bad idea. Alpha shift had ended hours ago but, after their little adventure being tossed around inside that nucleogenic cloud life form, there was so much work to do that stopping for dinner hadn’t even crossed her mind. She was almost done this, at least, or she would be if the fucking tray would just come fucking loose! She promised herself that when she was finished here, she would go to mess hall and scrounge a real, sit down meal and eat it all. Of course, what she really wanted right now was a stack of her grandmother’s little cinnamon shortbread cookies, her _polvorones de canele_. Her stomach growled again, and she started to salivate just thinking about them. 

She forced herself to stop. They didn’t have butter, or wheat flour, or ground almonds, or cinnamon, or powdered sugar. Longing for something she couldn’t have wasn’t helpful, either in the moment or long term, as long as they were stuck in the Delta Quadrant. But she could almost taste them, feel them melt on her tongue, see her _abulea’s_ smile. Feel the warmth of her soft, rounded body as she pulled her into a hug. She had deliberately not thought about her for years, and remembering her now only served to make B’Elanna more pissed off instead of less.

“I’m not, you know.”

B’Elanna started as the words seemed to amplify and echo down the narrow Jefferies tube, startling her out of her reverie and making her jump. She turned her head and glared at the intruder. Tom Paris stood upright and seemingly relaxed in the spacious tube junction. He was standing on the solid section of decking that abutted the vertical shaft, leaning against the ladder, arms folded across his chest, long legs crossed at the ankle. B’Elanna, however, was seated on the grillwork floor of the tube, her legs folded under her slowly going numb, her head and shoulders inside a conduit relay. She grunted and looked away. She couldn’t have been less interested in what he was or wasn’t. 

“A pig,” he clarified. “I’m not, really.”

She sighed, flicking him a quick glance over her shoulder. “Okay.” She joined the cables and peered closer at her handiwork, then used her ODN recoupler to seal it. Five relays had gone down today, creating headaches for stellar cartography, navigation, even security. Migraines. If Paris was here to bitch about repairs being slow she was going to throw her hyperspanner at his head. 

“I made that programme for Harry, not myself. Sandrine’s. I made it for the crew. So they can relax, have something new to do.” He waited a beat but when she didn’t respond, he continued. “As a distraction from, you know.”

“Sure,” she said. She shoved an isolinear chip in place. No sparks; that was a good sign. 

“To have fun.”

She sighed again. Did the man never get a hint? She swallowed her irritation and turned toward him. “Look, Paris, you may not have noticed but I’m busy. So unless you know how to fix a plasma manifold, why don’t you go play with your holo-friends and leave me alone to do my job, okay?” 

She kept her tone light, deceptively friendly. If she let him truly piss her off she’d probably screw up something on this needlessly complicated circuit assembly and have to fix it all over again. She needed to talk to Chakotay about rerouting and streamlining some of the ship’s systems. Following the manual wasted too much time. 

“My holo-friends?” He sounded offended. 

She gave up for the moment and sat back on her heels. He obviously wouldn’t be happy, wouldn’t leave, until he had her full attention. 

“Yeah. That creep with the disgusting hat, the younger creep who hits on every woman who walks in, including the captain. Your holo-bimbo.” She raised an eyebrow. Maybe she could insult him enough to make him stomp off in a huff?

“Holo-bimbo?” His brow wrinkled in confusion. “You mean Ricky?” He chuffed a laugh. He was definitely offended now. “She’s not a...bimbo!”

B’Elanna raised an eyebrow, cocked her head and folded her arms across her chest. 

“She’s smart and funny, and she has a real caustic sense of humor.”

B’Elanna blinked. “So you programmed your holographic girlfriend to have a caustic wit. I guess you’ve created your perfect woman. Good for you, Paris. As well as being a hotshot pilot, you’re a programming genius.” Her voice had taken on a sing-song quality, full of false brightness and compliment. Tom straightened and took a step toward her, obviously, instantly, on guard. He appeared to sense the insult under her words. He might be brighter than she’d originally thought. 

“I never said I was a—”

She held up a hand to stop him. “I really don’t care what you say you are, Paris. As long as you don’t fly us into a mutara-class nebula and burn out my engines, I really have no opinion of you whatsoever. And, in case you failed to notice, I’m busy. So, if we’re done here…?” She gestured to the conduit.

Tom’s jaw tightened. “Hey, _I_ really don’t care what you think of me personally, but—” he began.

“Yes, you do. You don’t think I’ve seen how hard you’ve been trying to play the perfect Starfleet officer for Janeway? How hard you’re trying to fit in? To make people like you?” An expression that she couldn’t identify crossed his features and she felt a little pang, wondering if she’d been a bit too on-the-mark with that last comment. She frowned as a new wave of irritation swept her; she would not feel sympathy for Tom Paris! 

“Though,” she continued, “if you want some advice, you’ll tone down your antics just a little.” She turned back to her work and Tom reached into the tube and touched her arm. Airflow was limited down here, and it was warm in the confines of the tube. Engineering work was sometimes physical: stretching to reach hidden components, wrestling with fused housing or sealed access ports, and Joe Carey had once likened it to resistance training. Add the heart-pounding, nerve-jangling adrenaline rush of _Voyager’s_ sporadic firefights and the resulting sparking, flaming wreckage in main engineering, and you had a good cardio workout. She couldn’t disagree.

The work she was doing today involved stretching and holding a—occasionally awkward—position for long periods of time, which had given her muscles a workout and warmed her further. She’d shrugged out of her jacket and pushed up her sleeves, and had been contemplating removing her shirt before Paris had arrived. She was glad she hadn’t. 

His fingers were warm on her upper arm, the pressure steady, even through the layer of cloth. She jerked her arm out of his light grip and flashed him a glare. He wasn’t cowed: his expression was pure righteous indignation.

“Antics? What antics?”

She bit her lip. Blew a breath. “You could give your gigolo a run for his money.” She recognized the prissy tone in her voice and frowned. She hated it when she sounded like that. 

“Gigo—” Tom cracked a laugh. “What’s the matter, Torres, are your feelings hurt because he didn’t proposition you, or because I didn’t?” His eyebrow rose and he sent her a smarmy grin.

She stared at him with open distaste, wrinkling her nose as if he gave off a noxious odor. As _if_ she would _ever_ go on a date with _him_! “I’m trying not to feel anything about you one way or the other, _Paris_ ,” she snapped. “Though your puerile pursuit of the Delaney sisters is making me—”

“Puerile?!” Tom chuffed. Colour flooded his cheekbones and turned the tips of his ears pink. “I am trying to distract Harry with a little friendly diversion. Jenny is funny and sweet and… and….”

“Witty?” B’Elanna supplied.

“And the Delaney sisters come as a set. It’s a double date or no date. You may not have noticed, but Harry is depressed. He misses his fiancée. And I don’t think we’re getting home next week. I’m just trying to cheer him up.” He looked morally affronted, as if she’d called him out for having sex on the helm control console in front of the whole bridge crew. “Besides, Meg’s nice but she’s a little too nice. I like my girlfriends to be a little more…”

“Caustic?” B’Elanna’s eyebrow rose.

“Intriguing.” He smiled. “And I guess Sandrine’s right, I do prefer my women with a little more bite.”

B’Elanna frowned. She didn’t know what to do with that comment, so she ignored it. “Sandrine’s okay,” she grudgingly admitted. Damn, now she definitely felt orry for him and a little ashamed of herself. How the hell did he do that? “Look, I’m sorry I _besmirched_ your reputation in front of the captain. I guess you probably feel you’ve been given a second chance here, and I understand why her opinion is important to you.”

“You could say we’ve both been given a second chance.” At her frown, he continued. “She made you the chief engineer—”

And just like that, his true personality emerged and her pity disappeared. “I was the chief engineer on the _Val Jean_. She didn’t give me anything. I—”

“Won it in a fair fight?” He raised an eyebrow in that way that never failed to piss her off. 

“I earned my position on this ship. I’m the best person for the job. I know more about—”

“More about a brand new, state-of-the-art ‘fleet ship than the people who were trained by Starfleet to run her?” He folded his arms and smirked at her. “Okay. I guess Maquis _intelligence_ is better than I thought.” Amusement shone in his incredibly pretty blue eyes.

And what the hell did he mean by that? She brought her chin up with a jerk. “If you’re suggesting that Janeway only made me chief to placate the Maquis crew, then you’re way out of line, Paris!” Her spine was stiff with indignation. 

He brought his hands up, palms outward, but she noticed he didn’t take a step back. “Whoa, Torres, take it easy. You said that, not me.” 

“And just for the record,” she continued hotly, “I’ve never wanted or needed a second chance with Starfleet. They betrayed the Bajorans, and offered up those settlements to the Cardassians like sacrificial lambs! I’d like nothing better than to get home tomorrow so I can get back in the fight. So you can take your pips and—” 

She snapped her teeth together with an audible click. Chakotay had warned her to play nice, had warned all of them not to start anything with Tom Paris. She choked back what she was going to say, schooled her expression to neutral. Damn him if he wasn’t watching her the whole time, a look of amusement on his face. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to…to wipe that smirk off his face. She wanted to grab him by the collar and drag him into the tube with her, or shove him to the floor. He was crowding her, like he always did, and he smelled too fucking good. And skinny and smarmy as he was, he _looked_ too fucking good! 

And he knew it. 

She drew a breath. “I’m sure the Captain doesn’t think you’re—”

Tom cut her off. He shrugged. “It’s okay. She had fun the other night. Did you have fun?” 

He looked hopeful and she sighed. “Yes. Sure, I had fun.” She tried not to sound grudging in the compliment. She’d certainly enjoyed watching Janeway beat the pants off Paris at pool.

He smiled wider. “So, if I run the programme again tonight you might drop in for another game?”

She raised an eyebrow. Tilted her head. “For Harry?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe.” It was grudging. “If I ever get this finished.” She waved a hand at the conduit.

“Ah.” He nodded. “If I had any idea what you’re doing, I’d help you.”

She tried not to snort. “Maybe you should stick to flying in a straight line.”

She caught his quiet sigh as he stared at her a moment, his expression flat. The merriment had gone out of his eyes, and he was wearing that polite, proper Starfleet Officer Mask she’d seen on all the ‘fleeters. Something they were taught in second year? A lesson she had missed, obviously. 

“Right.” 

He nodded and turned away, and she felt strangely empty. Baiting Tom Paris wasn’t as fulfilling as she’d thought it would be. 

He stopped and turned, one hand on the ladder. “You know, Torres, it occurs to me that since we’re stuck here together, no dry dock, no relief crew, just us, that just maybe we should all experiment a little, stretch beyond our natural inclinations.” 

She frowned: he was a master of insinuation. 

“For instance,” he continued, his tone sweet as cream, “I’ve been thinking about requesting permission to offer flying lessons to the crew. A little cross-training might go a long way to relieve boredom, stress. I could teach you to fly a shuttle and you could teach me to repair an ODN relay.”

“This is a power transfer grid,” she lied. 

“See?” He smiled that fake, ingratiating smile and she was irked all over again. 

“I know how to fly a shuttle,” she snapped, her tone accusing. “And if you think I want random people thinking they can repair the ship, you’re out of your mind! I don’t want anyone touching anything, not even a replicator, unless they’re assigned to me or ops. And if I hear that you—”

“Okay, okay.” He raised his hands placatingly, but didn’t back off. “It was just a suggestion. And I did say _trained_.” He frowned and stared at her a moment longer, shook his head and turned, finally. “I’m running Sandrine’s tonight in holodeck two, twenty-one hundred, if you’re interested.” He threw the invitation over his shoulder as he slipped onto the ladder and slid—of course—down to the next deck. 

Interested. As if she would ever be _interested_ in Tom Paris. She had a sudden flash of memory from her childhood, sitting at her _abuela’s_ kitchen table, munching her way through a tower of her special cinnamon cookies, and complaining about Daniel Byrd, a boy in her class who took delight in tormenting her.

_“Le gustas, frijolita. It’s what boys do when they like you.”_

_“Well, I hate him!”_

_“For now,” her grandmother had answered._

_“Forever!”_


	2. Fair Skies

Five Years Later…

 

B’Elanna was head and shoulders into an EPS conduit, humming tunelessly to herself, so she didn’t hear Tom climb up the ladder and exit into the tube junction. She didn’t hear him sit on the edge of the tube, or shuffle a few meters inside until he was crouched beside her in Jefferies tube 137 Alpha. It had taken him fifteen minutes of crawling through _Voyager’s_ intestines—he’d never dared repeat the transporter incident—but he was finally here, appreciating the fine arch of her back as she stretched to reach into the conduit, the flare of her hips as her uniform slacks stretched over the even finer curve of her bottom. He reached out and laid a hand on her lower back. 

B’Elanna let out a high-pitched squeak and jumped, dropping the isolinear chip she was about to fit into place. She whipped her head around, prepared to maim or, at the very least inflict pain upon, whomever had just startled her. 

Tom cringed. “Sorry.”

Her expression lightened and she smiled. She shuffled backwards slightly and straightened, ending up in the circle of Tom’s arms. “Well now this is convenient,” he said, swooping in to steal a kiss.

“What are you doing here? I thought you had pilot evaluations this afternoon.”

“I did. But Jenkins hit her head in the gym playing racquetball—”

“Yeah, I heard about that. Ow.”

“Mmm. And Baytart had to take her bridge shift, so that left me with some free time on my hands.” His hands certainly weren’t empty now, they were sliding around her waist and pulling her closer. He leaned down and kissed her again, then nibbled his way along her cheek and down her throat. 

“Stop...” B’Elanna moaned. She pulled back and smiled ruefully. “I need to get this conduit repaired then I have to check the taps and conversion sensors.”

“Really? I thought you were off tonight? We have holodeck time.” Disappointment swept over him. “I programmed a romantic dinner for two at an intimate little restaurant on Ktarius VII…” He had learned years ago that the way to B’Elanna’s heart was through her stomach. Stomachs.

“That sounds nice.” She sounded genuinely disappointed. “But, I’m sorry. I thought I was off, too, unfortunately we forgot to tell the plasma manifolds.”

“Figures. The one time I’m off early, you have to stay late. Oh well,” Tom sighed, “maybe Harry’s free for dinner.” He put on his best woe-is-me expression. He didn’t really have to fake it.

“Maybe,” There was a glint in her eye. “I’m sure he’d love Ktarius VII,” she teased. 

Tom grinned and leaned in to nip her under the ear. She convulsed and pushed him away with a squeak. He’d been warned about letting anyone know that big, bad B’Elanna Torres was ticklish, and he _usually_ tried his best to not set her off. 

“Sorry,” he said, not wholly meaning it. 

“You could see what Harry’s plans are, or you could help me with this and I might finish sooner.” 

It was said to beguile, but he didn’t need the hint of promise in her tone to spur him to action. In the five and a half years they’d been in the Delta Quadrant he’d become a _competent engineering tech_ according to the ship’s chief engineer, who was never stinting in her praise or condemnation when it came to her staff. He reached behind him and snagged the hyperspanner he’d brought with him and presented it to her with a flourish. 

She smiled and shook her head. “I’m afraid a hyperspanner is too big for this job; you need an ODN recoupler.” She waggled the tool under his chin. 

“Why, Lieutenant, I’ve never heard you complain that my tool is too big for your needs before.” 

B’Elanna laughed and bopped him in the chest. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“I am at your disposal.”

“Good. Then hand me that capacitor.” 

She turned her back to him and scooted further into the console, then braced a hand on the lip of the hatch and stretched further in. Tom observed her back (and other areas) again, with a smile. 

“Hang on to me, I can’t quite…”

Gladly. He slid his hands around her hips and braced his feet on the tube’s wall, and heard her chuckle. 

“You know,” she said as she leaned into the tube, “Joe grabs the back of my jacket.”

“I would certainly hope so,” Tom responded. “I’d hate to have to call him out.”

“Hyperspanners at dawn?” she asked. She shuffled backward, recovered isolinear chip in hand, and sat back on the deck between his upraised knees. He just grinned at her. 

“So, I had this idea for Sunday night,” Tom began. 

“Did you?” 

Her eyes warmed and Tom almost tanked his plans for a ship-wide party and came up with a romantic dinner on the fly. But he really wanted to share this with B’Elanna, and he was hoping she would agree. 

“I know that you said you weren’t really interested in trying the Fair Haven programme…”

B’Elanna’s lip curled. “And you also know that I have no interest in playing dress up on the holodeck, Tom. Unless you’re talking about a bikini…?” 

She raised an eyebrow and Tom groaned. Sun, sand, warm ocean waves, and just maybe he could talk her into skinny dipping again. He swallowed and reaffirmed his resolve. “But I had this idea for a party,” he continued. “For the crew, now that I’ve got Fair Haven back online.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You’re inviting the crew to our date?”

“I’ve been doing some research—”

“How industrious.”

Tom smiled patiently, “And you know this is a leap year—”

“Why is it called a leap year?”

“Because February has an extra day so that the Gregorian calendar aligns with the orbit of Earth aroun—”

“I know that part,” she rolled her eyes, “but why _leap_? It’s not like we jump ahead into March. If anything, the extra day makes February drag. If we wanted to leap ahead with the year, it should only have twenty-seven days. They should call it a _fall back_ year, or a _second chance at the last day of February_ year.” Both eyebrows rose this time. “What?”

Tom could feel the laugh tug at his mouth, but instead of giving in to it, he leaned over and kissed her again. She was teasing him, of course, baiting him. The B’Elanna Torres version of a _warm up_ before things got heated later… 

__

__

He drew a breath. “Legend has it—” he began. 

“Does it really?” 

“Um, hm. Legend says that back in fifth century Ireland, Saint Brigid complained to Saint Patrick that men took too long to propose marriage. So he—” 

“Why did she want him to marry her?” 

“She didn’t. Well, maybe. That’s a different legend. She complained that women had to wait around for, men to ask them.” B’Elanna had stiffened slightly and pulled away from him, and there was a new wariness to her expression. Tom felt suddenly warm; she didn’t think he was…? “Ah, no,” he assured her. “I mean…” 

It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought of marriage, or thought of _being_ married, in the most general terms. He had. He’d even thought about being married to B’Elanna specifically. Sharing quarters permanently, instead of the ad hoc arrangement they had now. Knowing she would come home to him every night, even after pulling a double shift in engineering. Sharing breakfast with her every morning. It held a certain allure. 

In fact, after B’Elanna’s careless disregard for her own safety when she’d flirted with her very real death to visit the mythical Klingon afterlife, when she had totally disregarded his own opinion in the matter, he’d wondered if she would have listened to his concerns if they’d shared a more formal bond. Afterward, after she was back from her spiritual journey, safe and whole, he’d had time to do some research on it and had become furious all over again. And frightened. He’d also read up on Klingon family bonds, and marriage rituals, and he’d been tempted, if not truly prepared. But he’d chickened out, and judging by her response now, he was glad he had. 

Still, he’d started this bungled explanation and he was determined to press on. 

“Saint Patrick decreed that on a leap year women could ask a man to marry them but only on the twenty-ninth, and I thought it woul—” 

“But why couldn’t they just ask anyway?” 

“Because this was two thousand years ago and—” 

“And women were still regarded as property and had no bodily autonomy. Well, that sounds like a great reason to throw a party.” 

Tom took a slow breath. Joking? Not joking? Sometimes it was hard to tell. 

“So I thought it would be fun, in honour of the the twenty-ninth, and because Fair Haven wasn’t finished for Saint Valentine’s Day, to throw a Sweethearts dance tomorrow night at the church hall, and I was hoping you would come because you’re my sweetheart.” He finished in a rush, determined to get it all out this time. 

“Am I really? That’s nice to know.” She noticeably softened, her eyes growing warm, a little smile playing around her mouth. She tilted her head and regarded him, and Tom couldn’t help but grin. “But what does this have to do with Saint Whoever?” 

“That’s the fun part,” Tom said, his eyes lighting up. “The women on the ship get to ask the guys of their choice to be their date.” Tom smiled, feeling pleased with himself. 

B’Elanna stared at him blankly. “Well, I guess Harron’s not going, then,” she deadpanned. “So, why aren’t you calling it the ‘Leap Year Marriage Proposal Dance’?” She managed to say it with a straight face but Tom could see laughter in her eyes. 

“Because,” he said, leaning over to give her a peck on the lips, “I don’t want to scare everybody off. I want people to come to the dance.” 

“So, let me get this straight.” She tilted her head. “February twenty-ninth is the only day of the Earth year when women can ask men to… dance.” 

“Well, of course it’s not really the only—”

“For the sake of argument.” 

“Of course.” 

“And you’re hoping that, what? The women on board will ask the men to your party?” 

“Yes.” Tom smiled, glad that she was finally playing along. 

“What about Lang and Dorado? Do they ask each other or do they have to ask men? I mean, they’ve been dating for three years, maybe they’re sick of each other.” 

Tom stared at her with an indulgent smile. 

“Or Yosa? Does he have to go to the dance with a woman or can he take his boyfriend?” 

“He’s seeing someone?” Tom asked, surprise making his mouth drop open. “Who?” 

“Stop gossiping, I’m asking a question. Oh! I know!” Her eyes widened with sudden excitement at her idea. “Dorado and Lang can take them! A female escort is required, right?” 

“You are so amusing, you just make me laugh and laugh.” Tom shook his head. 

“So, you’re asking me to come to your ‘Ask A Man To Dance’, dance?” 

“At this point in time, I’m not above begging,” Tom sighed. 

“But shouldn’t I be asking you?” 

“Are you?” Tom felt a renewed hope, like a little bubble of anticipation in his belly. B’Elanna popped it. 

“I don’t think so.” 

“C’mon, B’Elanna, it’ll be fun.” 

“Tom,” she sighed. “I just… why don’t you resurrect the resort programme? I’ll go with you to there.” 

“Because Talax doesn’t have leap years.” Tom observed her for a moment. Was it possible that she was actually turning him down? “Well, okay, if that’s really how you feel. But once it gets around the ship that you’re not interested, you never know who might ask me to the dance.” He lifted an eyebrow and waited but she only shrugged and turned back to the console. 

“Have fun,” she said. 

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you to come?” He gave her one more chance. She just shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to programme myself a date…” 

“That’s a great idea.” She was head and shoulders into the conduit now, her voice sounding slightly hollow as it was muffled by the coils of tubing and the fire-suppression insolation. “You could programme yourself a back-up girlfriend. One who actually enjoys dressing up in silly costumes and visiting archaic little villages on ancient Earth.” 

She flashed him a little smile over her shoulder to soften the criticism, and Tom shook his head with a resigned sigh. She caught his eyes and smiled again. “Would you hand me your hyperspanner?” Her voice was all innocence. 

“I thought you said it was too big…?” 

“I’ve thought of another job for it.” 

Tom grinned. 

She waggled her eyebrows and grinned back. 


	3. Safe Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we come to the part of the story that’s been in my head for the last twenty years...

Three days later… 

 

A full moon shone in the evening sky casting shadows on the cobblestone street and silver highlights on the snug, stone buildings surrounding the village square. The air was cool, but not cold, and a light breeze brought the clean, fresh scent of sea air and flowers to Tom’s nose. He wanted the crew to enjoy themselves tonight, not shiver in the cold of a rainy winter evening on the Irish coast. And okay, the moon back on Earth was in its first quarter, and it had risen at ten thirty in the morning and was well on its way to setting, but sometimes you had to play the numbers just a bit, tweak the programme, to set the mood. And the mood he wanted tonight was romantic and fun and definitely not _freezing in the dark_.

They’d had a rough few weeks—when did they not have a rough few weeks out here?—missing Valentine’s Day entirely in the hubbub surrounding Seven and Tuvok’s kidnapping by Penk, yet another Delta Quadrant alien who had never heard the expression that _a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet_. The incident, as well as blasting the crap out of _Voyager’s_ systems, had effectively put the final nail in the coffin of Tom’s shore leave plans. He’d imagined a romantic Valentine’s Day at one of Norcadia Prime’s famous beaches, followed by a romantic dinner at a fine restaurant, followed by wine and dessert in his (or B’Elanna’s) quarters, followed by a leisurely (naked) sleep-in and breakfast in bed the following morning. 

Of course, all of those plans had gone out the airlock as soon as he had seen Seven in that Tsunkatse ring. In the days it had taken them to find Tuvok and Seven on Penk’s ship, the firefight that had ensued during their rescue, and the ‘round the clock repairs to _Voyager’_ shield generator, not to mention repairs to the hole that Penk’s weapons had blasted in deck eleven. Valentine’s Day had come and gone. 

Then he and half the command team had been kidnapped by the Borg kids and threatened with assimilation. Good times. _Then_ , last week, Seamus and the boys had revolted and threatened to burn him and Harry as witches. That had been fun, too. It was at that point that Tom had started to question the hundreds of hours he’d put into the original programme, not to mention the amount of time he had devoted to restoring it after their run in with that neutronic wavefront had destabilized ninety percent of the programme. He had a feeling those hours could have been better spent. 

The last two months may have been run-of-the-mill for a ship lost in the Delta Quadrant, but none of that was romantic, unless one used the olde definition of word: exciting, mysterious, strange, imaginary. February had certainly been all that and more.

But tonight was supposed to exemplify the more common meaning of the word: an expression of love, conducive to romance. Tom sighed. The setting was perfect; unfortunately his lady love was nowhere to be seen. He’d planned to only stay for a little while, long enough to greet the crew and make sure the party was in full swing before he left to spend a long postponed romantic evening with B’Elanna. The one good thing about hosting a ship-wide party on one holdeck was that it meant the other holodeck was empty. He’d reserved two hours starting at twenty-one hundred, and called up and dusted off his old Lake Como programme. She still hadn’t gone sailing with him, and he did plan to do some sailing, why waste a perfectly good holographic full moon subroutine? Plus, the rocking of the waves combined with the tiny bunk in the small yacht should provide for an interesting evening… 

He was leaving without guilt. The party was a hit. The crew had come out in force. Most of alpha and gamma shift were either in the church hall dancing or eating, or strolling through the quiet streets of the village. He’d opened the programme at noon and planned to run the dance for as long as the crew held out, providing an opportunity for everyone to join in. 

Seven had brought the Borg kids along, though it was more of an anthropological expedition for them than a party. Harry had been dancing with the newly _disengaged_ Maggie O’Halloran most of the evening, and the Doc was beside the refreshment table espousing on the history of the brewing of beer (and the sinfulness of overindulgence) to Fitzgerald, Milo, and Liam. When Tom had left the church hall, Seamus was trying to cadge a drink from Michael Sullivan by convincing him that he should open the bar for those not so inclined to dance, but still wanting to celebrate. Michael had declined then led the Captain in a reel. 

Yosa had indeed brought his new boyfriend, Nozawa, who knew? And he’d seen Jarvin slip out the door with Angi Trumari, though Tom had thought they’d broken up last month. Maybe the lure of a moonlight stroll along the coastal cliff path had softened her heart toward him. Tom had been hoping that B’Elanna’s heart would soften, but it hadn’t. He’d asked her at lunch to reconsider coming to Fair Haven, but she’d put him off. Meg and Jenny had overheard and invited him to join them, and B’Elanna had actually approved of the idea, encouraged him to go with them. 

Tom sighed and headed for the exit figuring he would track down B’Elanna and see if she would agree to the sailing programme or, if she was mid-repair, coax her away for a quick dinner in the mess. “Computer, ar—”

“Tom? Tommy!”

Tom halted mid-stride and turned, his eyes going round as a slight, dark-haired young woman stepped out of Butterslip Lane, the alleyway between the green grocer and the chemist shop. 

“R…Ricky?”

She slinked toward him, loose-limbed and pouting, her bare—and dirty—feet making little _pat pat_ sounds on the cobblestones. Her dress was ragged around the hem and obviously dirty even in the pale light of the full moon. Her hair, usually sleek and shining, was gathered in a loose, messy ponytail over one shoulder and tied with a length of ribbon. The neckline of her blouse could only be described as _plunging_.

“What…” Tom said, dumbfounded. “What are you doing here?”

She reached him and smiled, then wound her arms around his neck and pressed her body against the length of his. “Tommy! It feels like it’s been years since I’ve seen you. One minute I’m your best girl, the next you’ve disappeared!”

Tom coughed as the pungent, sharp scent of pig manure hit his nostrils. He backed up a step, dragging her with him since she wouldn’t let go, and wrapped his hands around her wrists, attempting to pull her arms from his neck so he could push her away. 

“Tommy, what’s wrong?” Her voice was low and breathy, with an Irish lilt that had been newly added to her subroutines. 

“Ricky, I—” He coughed again and tried not to breathe.

A peel of familiar laughter cut him off, rich and gleeful, coming from the doorway of the sundries shop behind him. Tom pushed on Ricky’s shoulders and took another step backward, trying to move out of range of the scent of offal she emitted. He craned his head and saw B’Elanna step out into the light. She was leaning against the stone archway that supported the shop’s overhanging roof, her face turned toward the pillar, her body convulsing. She turned her face toward him, saw Ricky still twined around his neck, and snorted into her hands.

“Computer, delete Ricky character,” Tom gasped. His eyes were starting to water. She shimmered out of existence taking the cloying cloud of stench with her, and Tom reached toward B’Elanna, slid a palm down her arm to her elbow. He tried hard to frown but a grin was tugging at his lips, too. 

“I’m sorry,” she snickered. “I couldn’t resist.”

Tom looked her up and down. She was wearing a red dress that he didn’t recognize, made out of a soft, slinky material. It had a fitted bodice that accentuated her breasts, short sleeves that showed off her toned arms, and a full skirt that ended just below her knees. Not exactly _period_. She took his breath away. 

“I know that feeling,” he murmured. 

“Are you sure you want to delete your backup girlfriend?” 

Tom smiled. He’d deleted Ricky from Sandrine’s years ago, hadn’t activated her since, hadn’t thought about her since thoughts of B’Elanna had turned from friendship to longing. “I thought you had to work.”

“I decided I’d rather play with you.” She smiled at him and leaned forward to plant a slow, sweet kiss on his mouth. “How’s your ‘Escort A Man To The Church’ dance going?”

“It’s the church hall and everyone is having a fantastic time, thank you.” He eyed her up and down again just because she looked amazing in her dress. “I’m glad you came,” he said. “So, since you’re here, do you want to go to the dance?” Tom asked, ever hopeful. With her bare arms and legs, she might just cause a riot but Tom was willing to chance it. 

“Why don’t you show me the town instead?” She looped her arm through his and patted him on the hand.

Tom steered her toward the town square, walking slowly, enjoying the warmth of her at his side. “Really, you can see it better in the daytime.” 

“It’s pretty quaint in the moonlight.” She smiled at him and rested her head on his shoulder as they strolled.

“So why did you decide to come all of a sudden?” He wasn’t complaining but he was curious.

“I always planned on coming.”

Tom shook his head. “I guess I walked right into that one.”

“I guess you did,” she agreed. 

As they rounded a turn in the street, they could hear the sounds of fiddles and violins, bodhrán drums and a tin whistle, feet stomping and hands clapping in time to a tune. The door to the church hall was open, spilling light and laughter and bodies out into the street. They dodged young Danny chasing Ella Cunningham, and Milo and Liam’s roughhousing. Tom nodded at Doctor Fitzgerald and Grace, lingering in the doorway, then stepped past them into the crowded room. 

“Tommy, my boy!” 

Seamus, of course, was at his elbow in an instant. 

“Sure if Liam didn’t tell me that he’s seen you near the Butterslip with Veronica Euan at the minute, but this lovely creature isn’t our Ricky.”

“This is B’Elanna.” Tom placed a possessive hand at her back.

Seamus looked at Tom, the surprise evident on his face. “Well, Miss Belle Anna, Tom didn’t lie and that’s the truth. And you’re aptly named.” He turned to Tom with a wink. “She’s a beauty like you said.”

“She is at that,” Tom agreed. 

Seamus took B’Elanna’s hand in his and brought to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. “Delighted to meet you at last,” he said. “You do shine with a brilliant light.”

“And you are a charmer,” B’Elanna answered with a laugh.

Tom spied Harry, still dancing with Maggie, and Lang and Dorado laughing with the Captain and Michael Sullivan near the refreshments table. The Doc lifted a hand to them and waved, and Tom nodded back. 

Tom slipped his arm around B’Elanna’s waist, and pulled her hand out of Seamus’ grip. “Do you want to get some punch?” he asked. 

“No.” She smiled at him, and her eyes sparkled. “I want to dance with you.”

It was a night for surprises. Tom pulled her toward the dance floor and twirled her in a circle, appreciating her bright smile and the way her dark hair swung around her cheeks, and as they lept into the reel, her head thrown back in laughter, he caught a brief flash of her thighs as her dress swirled up over her knees. Oh, yeah. She was definitely going to cause a riot.

**Author's Note:**

> I suck at shortbread but these I could actually make. If my math is correct (it is), it works out to two teaspoons of butter per cookie. Yep! 
> 
> Polvorones des Canele
> 
> 350*. 15-20 minutes. 2 dozen cookies
> 
> Sift together and then set aside:
> 
> 1/2 cup icing sugar  
> 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
> 
> You will roll the balls of dough in this before they’re baked.
> 
> Cream together until fluffy:
> 
> 1 cup unsalted butter  
> 1/2 cup icing sugar  
> 1/4 teaspoon vanilla (I used almond flavouring)
> 
> Sift together:
> 
> 1 and 1/2 cup flour  
> 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon  
> 1/4 teaspoon salt
> 
> Add dry ingredients to creamed butter mixture and stir until just blended. Roll dough into 24 small balls, then toss in the icing sugar/cinnamon mixture. Place on lined baking sheet and bake for 15-20 minutes until golden. Watch them, the butter can burn easily. 
> 
> Feed them to your very own cranky half-Klingon.


End file.
